


Rampart

by AgentCoop



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Dinner Party, Hand Job, M/M, Public Hand Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 16:36:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19772182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/pseuds/AgentCoop
Summary: Max is invited over to a dinner party hosted by his new boss. Unfortunately, the anonymous man he blew in a bar last night also happens to be there.Because he's the boss's son.***Unapologetic PWP based loosely on an episode of Californication. Dedicated toIcarusFallingwho made amazing art based on the idea. Check it outHERETitled by my adoring husband who has no fucking clue what the thing he was titling is actually about.





	Rampart

It was supposed to be a simple dinner party—nothing more. He and a few other new hires had been invited over to dinner by the new boss and his family, and he was going to smile, and be engaging, and try not to focus on the fact that his life was ending, that his wife was leaving him, and that he’d woken up this morning with a hangover the size of a small country and very vague memories some fairly incriminating activities that had been done to him, and by him at the hole-in-the-wall bar downtown.

And all of this should have been fine. 

All of this should have been perfectly delightful, because Max was well versed in pretending he was having a great time, except for the fact that when he walked in the living room, the man who he’d engaged in the above illicit activities was right there, staring back at him.

And the man in question wasn’t so much a man, as he was a teenager, and the only son of the new boss.

“Max, this is my son, Ash,” Jim Callanreese had said, and then promptly disappeared into the kitchen.

“Fuck.” This was the only thing he could think to say—all other words had been stripped from his vocabulary, there was nothing left but fuck, fuck, and fuck.

“Why, Mr. Lobo, it’s so nice to see you again.” 

Ash was leaning against the side of a virginal white suede couch, his body languid and relaxed. His eyebrows were raised, as though daring Max to say something, and he slowly crossed his arms in front of his chest, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t.” Max ordered, looking over his shoulder to make sure his father was nowhere within earshot. 

“Oh?”

“Fuck. How old are you actually?” _Please don’t be underage, please don’t be underage, please don’t be underage_ was all his brain could think. The ID he’d flashed at the bar said 1995 so he should have been 24. It also said his name was Chris so clearly this was all a lie and fucking shit, he was in so much fucking trouble.

“Nineteen,” Ash said, grin growing wider. “Don’t worry. Cops haven’t been called.”

“Thank fuck,” Max groaned, a wave of relief cascading through him. “Jesus.”

“I’d be careful, though,” Ash said, finally moving towards him, letting a finger trace along Max’s shoulder as he passed. “Daddy is a bit protective. Wouldn’t want you to lose your job before you started.”

And then he was gone, off to the kitchen presumably to help set a dinner for eight that was about to be the most uncomfortable experience of Max’s life.

***

Mr. Callanreese and his wife Jennifer sat at the heads of the table, with Marvin and Luke on one side, and Max and Ash on the other. Max tried to slip into Luke’s seat before the sturdier man was able, but Mr. Callanreese’s wife delivered a piercing glare at his blatant disregard for the name cards that lay perfectly positioned on top of each plate, and so defeated, he moved into his chair, on his side, trying to avoid even looking in Ash’s direction.

This was problematic because Mr. Callanreese sat in Ash’s direction and he actually did have to pay attention to the boss when he spoke.

“So, Max,” Mr. Callanreese began. “You were in Iraq, right? A journalist?”

Ash tilted his head and watched Max, his tongue poking out and licking at plump, swollen lips.

“Uh…yeah.” Tearing his gaze away from the brilliant green eyes next to him, Max took a deep breath and focused on the task at hand. “Yes, I was stationed in Iraq in 2012. I was working for the San Francisco Chronicle, and—” 

There was a hand on his knee.

Max jerked, and looked back at Ash who had his head propped on one hand, elbow firmly on the table. Ash just smiled.

And then the hand started to move up.

“Umm,” Max cleared his throat, reaching down and wrapping his hand around Ash’s wrist very, very firmly. “Sorry. Where was I?”

“The Chronicle,” Mr. Callanreese said, smiling at him to continue. There was something wolfish in his smile—something predatory. 

When Ash smiled it was similar. Like he was on the hunt, fangs ready. “Right,” Max continued, keeping his grip on Ash’s wrist solid, refusing to give way. “So I worked for them out in the field. I was also trained as an army medic, so…double the job or something!” His smile faltered as he listened to himself speak—he sounded ridiculous, he sounded nothing like a journalist who actually knew how to put two words in a sentence and make them sound halfway intelligent.

“Would you pass me your glass sir?”

Looking up into the eyes of the waiter standing to his left, Max grimaced. His right hand was already preocuppied with using the the salad fork to…well…eat. He had no choice. He let go of Ash’s wrist and handed his glass over to be filled with water.

And Ash crawled fingers right up to the zip of his dress pants, deftly working it down in the mere seconds it took to fill the glass.

Luckily, Mr. Callanreese turned his attention to the other side of the table and Max was able to glare as intensely as possible in Ash’s direction. 

It did no good. His hand was working Max underneath the table and he was smiling and sweet above, asking questions of the other men as though he had no other interest in the entire world and ignoring Max completely. Max swallowed thickly. He was already hard. He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore it, tried to think of dead things, or of his deceased mother or of…

_Ash, thrown up against the stall of the bathroom, head thrown back, throat bared, little moans of ecstasy escaping his mouth as Max swallowed him down…_

No. Not that. Not fucking that.

Ash’s thumb teased at the head of his cock, wetting it and stroking slowly back upward and Max almost lost it completely. “Water,” he managed, his voice rough. “I’m sorry, water, please?”

“Are you all right, Mr. Glenreed?” 

Jessica was looking at him with some concern and Max tried his best to smile, to ignore the shameful heat that was creeping up from his neck to his face. “Yes, sorry. Swallowed wrong.” He coughed a little, trying to deflect back to the conversation at hand. Ash had his entire cock out now, had his hand wrapped around it and was stroking just hard enough that Max couldn’t fucking contain himself. Coughing again, trying to cover a groan, he shot another desperate look in Ash’s direction.

Ash was watching him now, concern in his features, but also a wicked gleam in his eye. “Your columns for the Chronicle were interesting. But I’m more interested in hearing about the writing you plan to do for Dad’s magazine? How do you plan to move from journalism to…well…blogging?”

And there it was. 

The entire table turned to look at him, waiting for his answer, while he was two minutes away from spurting cum all over the underside of the dinner table.

“Well…” Ash’s hand was working faster now and Max had no fucking clue how he could sit there, looking so relaxed, looking so interested in everything going on, while underneath the table his hand was soaked in pre-cum. The sounds of eating were even slowing now, as people waited for his answer and he needed to fucking talk before the slick sound of Ash’s hand job became more noticeable. “It’s not really that different at all, is it? I’ll still be talking about current events. Just in a…well…more palatable sense.”

He actually hated the idea of it. Being a blogger. It was such a demotion, a tacky job description, but newspapers all over the country were downsizing and he was out of a job, and out of a wife, and out of a million-dollar house in the hills and needed to make ends meet somehow.

“Interesting,” Ash said, syllables sticky sounding in his mouth. “I can’t wait.”

The conversation turned back again, and Max tried to focus, tried to keep his eyes open. All he could see was Ash against that wall, he remembered the taste of him as he came, hot down Max’s throat. He remembered the way Ash grabbed his hair, thrusting against him and moaning, moaning…

Christ, that sound wouldn’t leave him.

He was getting close now—his leg was starting to shake with the intensity of trying to hold back, his fork clinked once, then twice against his plate and his jaw hurt from clenching so hard. “Fuck,” he whispered, then looked up frantically.

No one was looking at him. They were busy listening to something, some story, he didn’t know, it was all a buzz in his ears, the only thing he could feel was Ash’s hand, fuck, fuck…

He came silently, spurting into Ash’s hand, and spilling, wet against his slacks. Inhaling suddenly, loud even against the ongoing conversation, he flinched, then reached once more for the water glass.

That was empty.

Again.

“Sorry,” he murmured, everyone watching him once more. “Sorry. Thirsty.” Then he chuckled, trying so hard to be normal, to be anything but the guest at a dinner party who was just jerked off underneath the dining table.

Ash stroked down the side of his pant leg, presumably wiping the worst from his hand. Then he raised it back up, catching Max’s eye, and blatantly sucking a finger.

“Ash, dear,” Jessica called down. “Would you go check on the main course?” 

“Sure thing, Mom,” he said. 

He stood up, letting his hand drift longer than absolutely necessary on the back of Max’s chair, and then he disappeared into the kitchen.


End file.
